What's the point
by Chatote
Summary: John is gone. It explains everything. TST spoiler. Warning: suicidal thoughts


**Also on Ao3**

John's letter was lying on the table, its words printed in Sherlock's mind. They kept coming, over and over, never letting him in peace, never letting him rest, like immortal ennemies attacking from his most sacred place. His own brain was killing him.

Sleep was just a sweet memory, like the soft burn of the sun during a cold winter. How could he sleep? How could he sleep when he knew the room upstairs was empty, and will forever be? How could he sleep when he knew John wouldn't be here in the morning? How could he sleep when John wasn't here to remind him to? How could he sleep when his bed was colder than ever?

What was the point? What was the point of watching telly if John wasn't here? What was the point of solving crimes? What was the point of anything? It had been _weeks_ since he had last played the violin. John wasn't here to listen anymore. John was… lost. He has lost John.

Sherlock laid down on the sofa. It felt odd, as if even the furnitures were rejecting him. As if 221B Baker Street didn't want Sherlock Holmes anymore. He briefly wondered where Mrs. Hudson was. He couldn't hear her downstair. Maybe at John's, taking care of Rosamund with Molly.

 _Anyone but you._ He shook his head angrily to chase the unwanted words. The smiley was looking at him from the wall. Was it disappointed in Sherlock? Maybe it was… Billy didn't seem happy neither. He was watching Sherlock too, from the chimney. They should have stayed together. Sherlock should have stayed with him. Everyone would be happier if he had.

The blue liquid was shining under the dimmed light. Sherlock observed its reflection. It was beautiful. Like living water taking him into its depths. Calling him.

He hadn't made a list this time. Again, what was the point? He didn't even knew what it was — didn't care. He felt a pinch of guilt when the needle finally found a vein — what would Lestrade think? — but suppressed it instantly. It was for the best. No one wanted a psychopath.

He could feel the cold poison rushing through his veins and arteries. It reminded him of before. Simpler times, when it was only him and Mycroft. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. Who would have thought he'd come to regret those times? Certainly not him.

The drug had reached his brain, finally. Liberation will come soon enough. His vision was already starting to blur. He looked around frantically, trying to memorise every single part of the flat. His eyes first fell on John's armchair. No one had sit there since… a long time. He could still remember the first time John had sat there, years ago. « _Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed. »_ John's very first words inside this flat.

Besides was the kitchen and the fridge. John had always been so annoyed by Sherlock's experiments. How many times had he asked him to put the body parts anywhere but in the kitchen? Sherlock had always thought his annoyance wasn't real. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe, if he had been a better flatmate, John would still be here.

He could picture the hall, downstairs, where so many runs had ended. _« That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.» « You invaded Afghanistan. »_ Pain brought Sherlock back to reality, away from his happy memories. Memories, that's what it was. Past. Gone.

 _Anyone but—_ The words didn't have any sense anymore. What was it supposed to mean? Anyone but… Sherlock? He couldn't remember. Anyone but John? No, that was stupid. Who wouldn't want John? Anyone but Sherlock was more plausible. No one wanted a hight functioning sociopath. He was only good at solving murders. Trying to be more had been a mistake.

The needle rolled out of Sherlock's hand and fell on the floor with a light _thump_. It was night outside. The sun was long gone. How symbolic. Sherlock's light was gone too. John, the conductor of light. John the blogger. John the army doctor.

Sherlock closed his eyes, ready to welcome eternal sleep. Ready to drift away from reality. Away from this boring and painful world.

'Mrs. Hudson won't be happy.' Sherlock's eyes shot open. He knew this voice by heart. He could recognise it anywhere. He knew it like he knew his own name.

Indeed, when he opened his eyes, John was standing before him, a frown on his face and arms crossed on his torso.

'You're not real,' Sherlock said. He wished he hadn't. He could have kept the illusion a bit longer.

'Brilliant! Now, if you're done pointing at the obvious, what are you going to do?' not-real-John asked. Sherlock could almost believe that there was worry in his eyes.

'Do about what?' he replied from the sofa. Not-real-John eyes widened. In fear? He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked at him straight in the eyes. Sherlock shifted. His shoulder was burning where not-real-John's hand was.

'You're dying, Sherlock,' not-real-John stated.

'Course I'm dying,' Sherlock replied with a small smile. 'It's your turn to state the obvious.' Not-real-John was about to speak again but he disappeared without warning under Sherlock's eyes. It was harder and harder to keep his eyes open. Despite his tiredness, Sherlock managed to sit. 'John?' His voice was so low he could barely hear himself. Where was John? Why wasn't he here?

Suddenly, there was hands on his shoulders again. They pushed him down. Sherlock didn't have the force to resist. His head hit the cushion and rolled on the side.

'Shhh, Sherlock,' John said. 'I'm here. I won't leave you.' He passed a hand through Sherlock's black curls.

'John, before I go…' Sherlock whispered in his half-consciousness. He wanted to grab John's hand but he didn't have the energy anymore. 'Before I go… I wanted to…' He wanted… He wanted… There was something he wanted to say. It was his last chance to say it. He lifted his eyelids one last time and let himself get lost in John's face.

'I… love… you.'


End file.
